


Wayward Son

by fanspired



Series: The Song Remains the Same [9]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Drama & Romance, Epic Romance, Horror, Hunters & Hunting, M/M, Relationship Issues, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Thriller
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-04-12 04:23:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4465316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanspired/pseuds/fanspired
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Sam Campbell and Dean Winchester continue their quest to rescue John from the yellow eyed demon, Sam’s visions reveal another of the psychic children. Is he connected to a series of mysterious immolations? Is the yellow eyed demon involved? Sam's search for answers leads him home in more ways than one. Along the way, he and Dean discover they have a mutual friend in South Dakota, and Sam learns more than he wants to know about his relationship with Dean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> AUTHOR’S NOTES: This is episode seven of an episodic serial, The Song Remains the Same, that mimics the format and style of the original show. There is an ongoing slash romance sub-plot, but each episode contains a self contained action-adventure plot that can be read as a stand alone story. A summary of the story so far will be given at the beginning of this episode. For those who'd like to read the full story full, the above link will take you to the serial master post.
> 
> Other episodes in this series:
> 
> Pilot: I Can Never Go Home (parts I & II)  
> 2, Golem  
> 3, Prank'd  
> 4, Together  
> 5, Something Wicked?  
> 6, Bad Blood.
> 
> ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS AND DISCLAIMERS: I should like to offer my grateful thanks to my most loyal supporter for being my beta-reader and, as always, I offer my apologies to the writers and creators of Supernatural for my use and abuse of their original material. I write for love only, Supernatural belongs to Eric Kripke/CW.
> 
>  
> 
>   
> 

_**THE ROAD SO FAR:** _  
  
_It's been six months since the yellow eyed demon killed Amanda Winchester and possessed John. Their son, Dean, is no longer the naive college student and wannabe musician he was back then. He learned all his new hunter friend Sam Campbell could teach him about the supernatural, but while they've been saving people and hunting things, it still seems like they're no closer to finding the demon and saving Dean's dad. They've been desperate enough to follow clues left by a demon called Gemma (and that's not even her real name). She led them to Red Lodge, MT, where Dean learned that his old college buddy, Jim Masters, was really a vampire who's been after Yellow Eyes for over two hundred years. It seems the demon's been attacking familes for generations, and not just in the US, but all over the world. Oh, and Sam tried to kill Jim. Sam hates vampires because, turns out, on his last hunt with the Campbell family, a nest turned his cousin/girlfriend (Gwen) and Sam had to gank her . . . so that's a thing. But Jim's disappeared now, anyway. And Sam's just revealed that he and other children who survived Yellow Eyes' fires have, like, super powers. Sam gets prophetic dreams and crap. And others may be hunting them - him. Now, he brings this up. Now. After all these months of fighting together back to back and  . . . and recently all the hot sex and . . . and where does that even leave them? What does it all mean?_  
  
_Let me get back to you on that._  
  
  


 

 

**Prologue**

  
**_Cairo_ ** **_, Egypt_ ** **_– 1923_ **

The sun was a small pale disc in the western sky but it yet illuminated the ancient city, turning the great dome of the heavens a burnished bronze feathered with scarlet, and the rippling waters of the Nile to molten gold. The dusty whitewashed walls of the city below bled pink with its dying light.

From his vantage point, perched near the edge of the rooftop of the Museum of Antiquities, he had a fine view of the city skyline with its tangle of palm trees and contrasting architecture. Cairo spread out before him like a scroll that told the story of millennia: of the rise and fall of civilizations and empires. Coptic crosses mingled with crenellated battlements, synagogues with white domes and minarets, and, to the north-east, a red granite obelisk rose as visible reminder that these lands were once the domain of Ra.

Despite the lateness of the hour, shimmering waves of heat rose from the streets and scorched his nostrils as he breathed the pervasive scent of camel dung, the odor of perfumes and spices from the souks, and the myriad reeks of humanity. Many among the bustling masses in the street were wilting under the evening heat but he thrived on it. Raising his gaze he stared unblinking into the setting sun and felt its rays filling his limbs with power and vitality he had not felt in ages.

From the streets below he could hear the familiar wail of song. The cacophony of musical instruments varied over time; the tone and timbre of the music changed; different themes wove back and forth, fading away to return again then fade once more; but the song itself remained, old as life.

It was time to descend. Making his way down to the lowest floor, he walked past the columns and the plaster Egyptian figures that stood as guards outside the doors of the old library. He found the curator among the stacks. The man was shouting at a lowly clerk for some trivial error, abusing and berating him, even going so far as to slap the boy about the head and shoulders, but he desisted when he saw the visitor approach and dismissed the clerk with a wave of his hand.

“Ah, you have returned! Good! Good!” the man greeted him.

“You have had time to study the item?”

“Yes! Indeed! A very curious artifact indeed. Please!” The curator directed him toward a large desk at the head of the room where he took out a set of keys and proceeded to unlock a heavy wooden box in which he’d stored the scroll. “It was found near the Temple of Re-Atum, you say?” he asked as he unfurled the document, lifted a monocle to his eye and perused the article anew. “It will take time and special study to date accurately, but it may be the oldest example of its kind that I have ever seen. It is likely Egyptian in origin but that is by no means certain. Although it employs Egyptian hieroglyphs and pictographs there is also extensive use of an early Phoenician script. And it appears to tell an unusual variant of the Grecian story of Europa – the Phoenician princess who was abducted by Zeus in the guise of a bull?” The curator looked up for confirmation that his visitor was familiar with the tale, and was granted a tight, enigmatic smile. “In this version Zeus appears as a trader and tries to bargain with her brother for her hand in marriage . . . or he may be her lover. The vocabulary is difficult and ambiguous, you understand . . . but, then, the morality of those times . . . Egyptian royalty, for example, often married their own siblings . . .”

The man did nothing to disguise his embarrassment and distaste. Such were the minions of this world’s bickering gods; enslaved to his own brief span of time and the narrow confines of his particular culture, the curator was too swift to presume his visitor shared – or should share – its limited dogma and arbitrary codes of conduct.

“When the brother declines his offers, Zeus slays him and takes the girl anyway, carrying her back to Crete where she becomes his bride. Full of grief, Europa prays to the god Apollo and bargains with him for her brother’s life, offering her own in exchange. The god appears to her in the form of a great bird and gives her a tail feather, telling her she must weave the tail into a shroud. Each night she labors in secret, working by the light of the feather itself, which is so bright that it glows even in darkness. After 280 nights her task is complete and she wraps herself in the shroud and is consumed by its fire, but the shroud is transformed into a likeness of her brother . . . or he is reborn from the ashes . . . but when he finds that his sister is dead he vows that he will not rest until he has avenged her.”

“And was the brother now immortal that he presumed to avenge himself against a god?”

The curator smiled indulgently. “Well, it is just a story,” he pointed out.

The visitor had remained tight lipped while he listened to the subjective and faulty interpretation of the scroll, but now he reached out and placed a hand on the curator’s chest. “You are an ignorant man,” he said, “and you know nothing.”

The man’s eyes widened in alarm and he tottered backward, clutching at his chest as smoldering flesh spread rapidly from the wound. Within moments the whole body was ablaze. The monocle cracked from the heat and dropped out of its socket, clattering onto the desk as the visitor folded up the scroll. The clerk, alerted by the screams, rushed into the room in time to witness his employer crumbling into ashes, and stare wide-eyed at the great bird as it unfurled its wings. Gathering up the scroll in its talons it swept out of the museum, rising high in the air and flying swiftly north-east toward what remained of his home, Iunu, and the Temple of Ra.


	2. Scene 1

**_Interstate 90, South Dakota_**  
  
_♫And you, my love, won't you take my hand?_  
_We'll go back in time to that mystic land_  
_where the dew drops cry, and the cats meow._  
_I will take you there. I will show you how.♫_  
  
“Yeah, I’ve got your message. Just opening it – wait a minute – ” Dean leaned across and turned the radio down; it was a little hard to hold a phone conversation with Spinal Tap playing that loud. When the picture file opened, his eyes grew wide and round. “Oh, man!” he exclaimed. “That is awesome! I am . . . _in awe!_ ” He could hear chuckling from his cell and found himself grinning in response, but Sam was sucking lemons the other side of the bench seat so he decided to wind up the call. “Don’t forget, now: you’ve got that number I gave you,” he concluded. “If anything comes up, just call us.” Dean continued to admire the photo after the call dropped out. The painting reminded him of something, but he couldn’t bring the recollection to mind.  
  
“You never mentioned the van,” he complained idly. “That paint job is a work of art!”  
  
“I didn’t particularly notice at the time,” Sam murmured, so Dean flashed the picture at him.  
  
“It’s a barbarian queen riding a polar bear. It's kinda hard to miss.”  
  
Sam just shrugged and kept his eyes on the road. “He’s getting better at it,” he observed, tightly.  
  
Dean nodded. “He’s been practicing. Training his brain with meditation. So now, it’s not just thoughts he can beam out, but images, too.” He chuckled as he recalled Andy Gallagher’s account of his telepathic escapades. “There’s this one guy he knows – total dick, right? So he used it on him: gay porn. All hours of the day. And he said his face . . .” He stammered to a halt when he saw _Sam’s_ face; it was a picture of shock and horror. And when Dean stopped to think about it, he supposed what Andy had done _was_ a bit mind rapey. “O.K. Maybe he stepped over a line a bit there,” he acknowledged. “But it’s not like he’s out there killing with his mind.” Sam’s recent revelations had made it sound like all the kids who’d initially survived Yellow Eyes’ house fires were either mutant psychos or dead. Or dead mutant psychos. But Andy seemed like just a regular guy. “At least he’s not trying to hide anything. He didn’t have to tell me about the stuff he could do, but he was up front about it. Makes it easier to believe he’s on the level.”  
  
Sam shot him a quick sideways glance, like maybe he thought Dean was taking a poke at him. And maybe he was. He looked down at Sam’s journal, thicker now by a couple of pages since Sam had returned the ones with the information about the ‘psychic’ kids that he’d seen fit to keep to himself before. Dean had never noticed the binder had missing pages but, in retrospect, the fact that a section had ended mid-sentence should have been a clue. It had just never occurred to him to suppose Sam would keep stuff like this from him.  
  
It was all back now, though: all the details of the other kids carefully documented in Sam’s meticulously neat hand, and it wasn’t like Dean couldn’t see why he’d been reluctant to share:  
  
  

    * Max Miller – telekinetic who killed his family in a bloody murder-suicide case.


    * Scott Carey – electrokinetic caught tampering with ATM machines. Suspected of killing a security guard who was later determined to have died by electrocution. Shot during pursuit by law enforcement. 


    * Lily Baker – hanged herself after her girlfriend’s sudden and unexplained heart failure.


    * Jake Talley – killed while serving in Afghanistan. Reports before his death claimed he’d once rescued a fellow combatant pinned beneath an overturned vehicle by lifting it off with his bare hands.


    * Gabe Hodge – suspected pyromaniac responsible for the deaths of up to 32 fire victims, including his aunt and two siblings. Died of a broken neck, cause unknown.


    * Isabelle Dubois – Broken neck, cause unknown. Ability, if any, unknown.



  
All of them had two things in common: they were all the same age as Sam and they’d all survived house fires that had originated in their nursery on the night of the kid's six month birthday. Now they were all dead. And Dean was trying not to show how disturbing he also found it that at least half the people on that list looked like they’d turned killer before they died, the one shining light being Jake Talley who seemed like a straight up hero.  
  
Most of the information on the list the Campbells had learned after the fact, from other hunters or news reports, but the Miller case had thrown up a flag because Max just happened to live in Saginaw, only an hour or so from their base in Lansing. His first victim had seemed like a suicide at first, but when his uncle’s head got sliced off by a sash window the Campbells started to suspect it might be their kind of thing. Sam had personally witnessed the last two deaths, walking in right at the moment the boy had shot his step-mother then turned the gun on himself. Thing was, though, Max hadn’t been holding the gun. Until he died it had been floating in midair. That had prompted the hunter family to check on the other house fire survivors, only to find they were a little late to the parade.  
  
Maybe it was easy to be smart with twenty-twenty hindsight, but it seemed to Dean like the Campbells had dropped the ball on this. Sure, things had been quiet with those families for more than twenty years, and then the hunters had their focus drawn by a spate of new fires, but Dean couldn’t help feeling like they should have been keeping closer tabs on those people. Then maybe they might have picked up on something sooner, maybe even saved a few lives.  
  
There were three more kids still surviving: a law student from Maine, a young mother from Florida, and Andy Gallagher, a drifter from Guthrie, Oklahoma. Andy had once had a twin brother, Ansen Weems, but the two boys had been adopted out to different families when they were babies, and there’d been no house fires, nothing out of the ordinary in Weems’ history. That is, until the kid drowned in a swimming pool accident when he was six. It looked like a legit accident, but who knows whether he would ever have developed some freaky power, too, if he’d lived.  
  
Sam had assured Dean that the family was keeping a close watch on the remaining three _now_ , but he’d still insisted on speaking to them himself. They’d all listened patiently when he’d called and explained he was writing a book about possible connections between childhood trauma and paranormal phenomena, and obligingly answered his detailed questionnaire about their experiences. Neither of the first two had shown any sign of developing any kind of ability and, to all intents and purposes, seemed to be leading normal lives. Andy had seemed mostly harmless, albeit a little stoned, when Dean was talking to him. His worst crime was using his mind control powers to stiff credit agencies . . . and, yeah, maybe that mind porn thing . . .  
  
“Well, I'm sorry, I'm starting to like the dude,” Dean insisted, stubbornly. “That van is sweet.” He studied the picture of the two bears again and then he realized what they reminded him of: the two horses from the tarot card, _the Chariot._ What was it the spirit of Donald Helfer had told Dean about the card? The light and dark horses wanted to go in different directions, but they had to pull together to keep the chariot moving forward . . . _wait_ . . . _what was that?_  
  
Dean looked up. “Did you feel that?” he demanded.  
  
“What?”  
  
He wasn’t sure . . . but he _was_ . . . he’d felt something _wrong_. . . through the seat, like maybe a faint bump or something except not like when you run over something rough on the road. It felt closer, more personal. He switched off the radio and listened. He couldn’t put his finger on it but something definitely felt off. “Pull over,” he said.  
  
Sam just shot him a blank look. “Dean, we’re on the Interstate – ”  
  
“I said _pull over!_ Something’s wrong! . . . With the _car!_ ” he added when Sam looked alarmed but mystified, and then he just looked more mystified, but less alarmed, and that was a bad development in Dean’s opinion.  
  
“We’re almost at the interchange,” Sam assured him, with rather less urgency in his tone than Dean felt the situation called for. “I’ll get off there.”  
  
Dean sat tensely listening to the engine as they turned onto the highway. “Come on, baby, talk to me,” he murmured. “Tell me what’s wrong.”  
  
As soon as Sam found a side road and pulled over Dean hustled him out of the car and slid behind the wheel. He tapped the gas a few times. “How’s she been driving?” he asked.  
  
“Fine.”  
  
“ _Really?_ ” Like Sam would know. He didn’t drive her enough. He didn’t know her, didn’t _feel_ her, the way Dean did. He wasn’t tuned into her moods. Dean sat and listened to the idle for a minute or two. She definitely wasn’t happy. “She sounds grumpy,” he muttered.  
  
“Grumpy?” Sam repeated skeptically.  
  
“I dunno, the rhythm’s off.” It made Dean think of hiccoughs somehow, but he wasn’t about to put it that way out loud. “ _There!_ Did you hear _that?_ ”  
  
Sam looked baffled. “What? I can’t hear anything, nothing out the ordinary,” he insisted. Dean wished he’d paid more attention all those times when Dad had tried to teach him about this stuff, so he could express what he was hearing in technical terms that Sam would understand, respect. “Just _listen!_ ” he snapped testily.  
  
Sam did for a bit but then just shook his head, so Dean popped the hood, went round to the front and opened her up. He stared meaningfully and Sam joined him. “Tell me that sounds right to you!” he pressed.  
  
“It’s rough,” Sam acknowledged presently, “but she’s an old car, Dean. She always sounds rough.”  
  
Dean glared at him. “She doesn’t sound like _that!_ ” He hung over the engine, trying to hear, trying to sense where the trouble was coming from, while Sam ran through his inventory of standard checks - mainly to humor him, Dean suspected. The sound was starting to give him a bad, winded kind of feeling, like he’d been punched in his gut. The sensation was vaguely familiar.  
  
Sam returned and stood at his side once more. “Maybe she’s misfiring,” he grudgingly admitted.  
  
“And what would cause that?”  
  
“Could be a couple of things. Bad plugs or coils, fuel pump, low compression – ”  
  
“That’s it!” Dean interrupted. “It’s the head gasket.”  
  
Sam stared at him. “Why would you say that?”  
  
He remembered having the same feeling in an old car when he was younger. “I’ve come across this before. That’s what it turned out to be.”  
  
“It’s not the head gasket,” Sam said dismissively.  
  
“How can you be sure?”  
  
“Because there’d be other symptoms. I’ve already checked the oil, the coolant, the exhaust; they’re fine – ”  
  
“Well, check them again!” Dean snapped. “You must have missed something!” Sam scowled at him and, yeah, maybe he’d come off more belligerent than he meant to be, but it was frustrating not having the tools to argue the logic. All he had was a gut feeling about the car and he couldn’t explain how that translated for him into mechanical terms. Sam wouldn’t get it.  
  
Sam bitch-stomped to the back, opened the trunk and came back with the tool box. The next item on his inventory apparently involved sticking an oversized turkey baster into the radiator neck. At least, that’s kinda what it looked like.  
  
“What’s that?” Dean asked.  
  
“Hydro-carbon test.” Sam glanced up. “You never saw John do this?”  
  
Dean shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe.” Truth is, he hadn’t spent nearly as much time with Dad as he should have. Maybe that was partly down to Dad. When Dean had been young his father hadn’t had much patience with a dreamy kid with too much restless energy running all over the brake shop, and by the time Dean had been old enough to teach he’d been off at football, chasing girls or, later, playing with his band a lot of the time. It wasn’t that he wasn’t interested in engines, but back then he’d lacked discipline, focus. He’d never had the commitment to learn this stuff properly. He always figured there’d be plenty of time and he’d get round to it.  
  
Dad should have been stricter with him.  
  
Sam pulled out the turkey baster and showed it to him. “Hydrocarbons in the coolant would turn the liquid yellow,” he explained.  
  
It didn’t look like it had changed color at all. “So, that proves it isn’t the head gasket?” Dean asked.  
  
“Probably.”  
  
“ _Probably?_ ”  
  
Sam hesitated then let out an exasperated sigh. “Well, you’d better hope it isn’t! Because if that’s gone, you can bet that it won’t be the only thing wrong, and getting parts for this engine won’t be easy!” Dean didn’t really need that reminder and it must have shown in his face because Sam continued in a softer tone. “Dean, the car’s forty years old. The fact that it’s idling a little rough doesn’t have to mean – ”  
  
“How far are we out of Sioux Falls?” Dean demanded. “Can we get there?”  
  
“If the head gasket’s blown? I don’t know. But, Dean, she’s been running fine – ”  
  
“If it _is_ ,” Dean snapped. Sam was just trying to be reassuring, he guessed, but it wasn’t working.  
  
“Maybe. If we take it easy. If the engine was running hot I’d be more worried, but so long as it isn’t overheating – ”  
  
“OK, well I know a guy just out of town who can help. If she needs parts he’s the guy who can get them if anyone can.”  
  
Sam stopped dead and stared at Dean. “You _know_ someone in Sioux Falls? You never mentioned that before!”  
  
As soon as Sam said it, Dean could see what he was thinking. Demon-Gemma had dropped a breadcrumb trail for them to follow through six other towns, and it had already turned out that Dean had a personal connection to two of them. He hadn’t known about those, though. He felt a little stupid that he’d forgotten about this one. “Oh, you’re gonna get on _my_ back for not sharing?” he shot back.  
  
Sam’s face clouded and his gaze dropped to the ground. “It could be important, Dean,” he murmured.  
  
“I don’t think so,” Dean replied, and he truly didn’t. Not like he’d known anyone in Sunrise, and he was sure there was no one he knew in Salvation, Pontiac or New Harmony, either. He was still pretty sure the clues were all connected to the Colt somehow. “It’s just an old scrap dealer who always came through for Dad when he couldn’t get parts anywhere else. I’ve only met the guy once in my life, but he and Dad exchanged Christmas cards now and then.” At least, Dad would have sent cards, as he did with all his trade contacts. Dean wasn’t too sure he ever got one back, though. “I never even thought about him until just now.”  
  
Sam was staring into a space just ahead of him, and Dean guessed his computer brain was sifting through his memory of the time he’d spent working in the brake shop with Dad, trying to recall anyone he’d dealt with who might have some relevance now. After a while it was clear he’d come up empty. “We should check it out, all the same,” he said.  
  
Dean grunted and got back behind the wheel while Sam cleaned up and returned the tools to the trunk. This should be interesting. He wondered how Sam planned to subtly bring up the subject of demonic possession with some random auto parts dealer.  
  
Sam climbed in the other door looking pissy that he’d been relegated back to the passenger side, but he dropped all the attitude abruptly when Dean practically had to floor the gas pedal to get the car moving.  
  
“Oh, _come on_!” Dean cried. “You’re telling me you couldn’t _feel_ that?” It was like she’d had the wind knocked right out of her.  
  
Sam stared back at him all wide-eyed and guilty looking. “It wasn’t doing that before, I swear!”  
  
Dean drove like a little old lady all the way to SF, but by the time they reached the outskirts the engine was starting to run warm and even Sam could smell something was off. At that point Dean decided to park and walk the rest of the way, just to be safe.  
  
When they got there the gates were padlocked closed.  
  
“Is it Sunday?” Dean asked.  
  
“All day,” Sam confirmed. He squinted through the wire, trying to see if he could spot the main building through all the rows of cannibalized cars and piles of old wrecks stacked up to four deep. He was just wondering if maybe there was another entrance somewhere when he heard the sound of Dean’s feet hitting the dirt at a run, and the rattle of the wire as he cat walked his way up the gate and swung himself over the top.  
  
“You know, you could just call the guy . . .” Sam suggested.  
  
“If I remembered the number I’d have done that already,” Dean called back, already heading down one of the aisles between the cars.  
  
Sam shrugged and joined him on the other side of the gate, but before he’d hit the ground Dean turned and held out a hand to detain him.  
  
“You’d better stay there,” he warned. “Rumsfeld can be funny with strangers.”  
  
Sam frowned and glanced back at the sign over the gate. It said ‘B  & E Scrap Metal’.  
  
“Who’s Rumsf – ”  
  
Dean was already out of sight.  
  
Sam stood by the gate and waited patiently. Then impatiently, then anxiously. Dean was taking too long. Sam strained to hear the sound of approaching voices, or anything to indicate he’d found the dealer. There was nothing. He began to edge his way along the aisle, peering between the cars. As he reached a clearing he stiffened when he heard a familiar and unwelcome sound just behind him: the distinctive click of a revolver.  
  
“Just hold still and keep your hands where I can see ’em,” a woman’s voice drawled.  
  
Just a woman, Sam assumed. Demons and monsters don’t typically bother to threaten you at gunpoint. He spread his arms and hands out slowly, and as unthreateningly as possible. “Hey, it’s O.K. I’m not here to rob the place or anything,” he assured her. “I know the owner.”  
  
“Yeah? Well, I don’t know you,” she retorted. “So you just lace those pretty fingers behind your head and start walking, boy.”  
  
Sam did as he was told, following her directions as he waited for a chance to get the gun away from her, but she was smart – staying just far enough back that he couldn’t just turn and grab it. All the while, he kept trying to explain himself.  
  
“I was just hoping to get help here,” he said, “with some car trouble I’m having – ”  
  
“You and your friend didn’t come in a car.”  
  
“It’s down the road. It was overheating . . .” Crap. So she knew about Dean. Maybe she’d already got him locked up somewhere. As they turned a corner the side of a house came into view and, as if to confirm Sam’s misgivings, he heard Dean’s agitated voice call out to him:  
  
“Sam! Need some help here!”  
  
Now he could see the porch where Dean was being held at the business end of a rifle by a young girl half his size. To add to the indignity, it appeared she’d somehow managed to get a strike in. Tears streamed from his eyes as he clutched his nose whining “I can’t see! I can’t even see!”  
  
“Sorry, Dean, I can't right now. I'm . . . a little tied up,” Sam admitted, indicating the woman behind him, who abruptly came to a halt.  
  
“Sam? Dean?” she repeated. “Winchester?” she quizzed Dean, and he owned to it.  
  
“Mom, you know these guys?” the girl asked.  
  
“Yeah, I think this is John Winchester's boy.” She lowered the gun, and laughed. “And you must be Sam Campbell,” she concluded, offering her hand. “Hey, I'm Ellen. This is my daughter, Jo.”

.


	3. Scene 2

Handshakes were exchanged and Dean kissed Ellen on the cheek. Apparently he knew the woman a little, by reputation at least. "I heard congratulations were in order," he said then hesitated, seemingly embarrassed. "Did . . . did Dad ever send you guys a card or a gift or . . ."

Ellen looked confused for a moment then laughed awkwardly. "Don't you worry about it. At our age we got all the gravy boats we can use already." Then she continued, more seriously, "but, honey, we were so sorry when we heard the news - "

"It's O.K. I'm all right," Dean assured her.

"Really? I know how close you and your mom were - "

"Really, Ellen, I'm fine," he insisted, still politely, but firmly enough to let her know the subject was closed, and there were a few moments of tense silence.

"Well, you're here now," she said, at length. "And thank God for it. Bobby's been looking all over for you boys. You know he can help, right?"

Dean nodded. "I knew he would if anyone could. We think it's the head gasket." Then, after an awkward pause in which a perplexed expression settled on Ellen's face, he added "sorry . . . help with what?" as it dawned on him she wasn't talking about the car.

"Well . . . the demon, of course," she elaborated. "It's got your daddy, right?"

Sam and Dean exchanged a glance of shock and confusion. "You know about that?" Dean gasped. "How in hell – "

"Who are you?" Sam demanded. "How do you know about all this?"

Ellen shot Sam a slightly sharp glance, but she answered his question. "I used to run a saloon. Hunters have been known to pass through now and again. That's how I met Bobby."

Sam still felt like he was missing something and Dean was equally nonplussed. "Wait! _Bobby's_ a hunter?!" he exclaimed.

Ellen's confusion deepened. "Well . . . that's why you're here, isn't it? Didn't Sam tell you?"

"Tell me _what?_ " Dean demanded in a dangerous tone, turning an accusing stare on Sam but, this time, he had no idea what he was supposed to have been concealing. He was trying to convey his innocence with his bewildered expression when the sound of a horn interrupted the conversation, and they turned to see a blue Ford truck driving up to the house towing the Impala behind it! To add to Sam's consternation, a large black dog jumped out of the back and started barking challengingly at him.

Dean laid a hand on his chest and moved between Sam and the aggressive animal. "It's just 'cause he doesn't know you," he assured him. "Rumsfeld! Here, boy!" he called, and the dog turned its head to survey him quizzically. He stood still while it walked up and sniffed at him, then it gave a low but excited 'wuff" and leaped up to drop its paws on Dean's shoulders. On its hind legs the Rottweiler was almost as tall as he was, but Dean seemed completely unfazed, scruffing the dog's neck and tugging its ears like it was just some overgrown puppy, and now it was slobbering all over his face it didn't seem so very threatening. Sam tried to hide his disgust at the unhygienic behavior. "Yeah, you remember me, don't you?" Dean was cooing. He glanced at Sam and caught his expression. "What? You don't like dogs?"

"Just haven't had much experience with them," Sam acknowledged.

"Rumsfeld! Git down! Stupid mongrel," a gruff voice yelled and Sam looked over to see its owner getting out of the truck. He absorbed the flannels and the old baseball cap and a thunderclap of emotion hit him in the chest even before conscious recognition came to him. He watched, stunned, as the weathered old hunter carried a bag of groceries up to the porch and handed them to Ellen.

"Found this ol' heap down the road," he said, ostensibly to his wife, and indicating the car. "Thought we could strip it down for parts!"

Dean grinned. "Getting tired of life, Bobby?" he shot back.

"Figured when I saw her I'd find you boys here." They shook hands and Bobby gave the younger man a swift but shrewd once over as he clapped his shoulder. "You've grown some since I saw you last," he said.

Dean nodded. "You'd better believe it," he replied with quiet earnestness.

The man turned and studied Sam appraisingly. " _Both_ of you," he added, with emphasis.

Dean's gaze swiped suspiciously back and forth between them. "So, you two _know_ each other?"

"I knew a snotty nosed little kid back in Kansas once upon a time. Looks like I might 'a missed a few pages since then." Bobby took in the young man's shock and discomposure. "You remember me, Sam?" he asked.

Sam struggled to force words past the knot in his throat. He'd been a child lost in a violent world overshadowed with a grief and rage he was too young to comprehend, and this man had provided the only kindly attention he could recall ever receiving back then. It made sense now why Ellen had assumed it was Sam's idea to come here, but it wouldn't have occurred to him to connect the hunter, whose current whereabouts he hadn't known, with the scrap dealer whose name hadn't been mentioned.

"Yeah, of course I remember you Mr. Singer," he managed eventually, in a voice oddly high pitched and breathy.

"Mr. Singer was m' pa," the old hunter replied, extending his hand and gripping Sam's warmly in his. "You jus' call me Bobby."

Dean blinked at them, then his eyes widened and he stared back at the man with renewed interest and a spark of understanding. In the midst of the moment Sam felt something cold against his hand; he twitched and looked down to find the dog sniffing at him.

"Let him get your scent, son," Bobby told him. "So long as you don't have a demon up in ya, he won't bite."

He watched Sam as the dog continued to snuffle around him, and Sam understood he was being tested. He felt absurdly anxious that he wouldn't fail, but presently both dog and owner seemed satisfied.

'All right, Rumsfeld, git," Bobby said, and with the dog dismissed he nodded toward the house by way of invitation. "Come inside and have a drink," he said.

They followed the couple into the house, halting in the hallway to take in their surroundings. Everywhere they could see there were books propping up piles of books, with piles of books on top. A room to the left appeared to be a library with book shelves, a desk with some old books sitting on it, and walls covered with maps, paper, photos . . . A trained eye could pick out mystical symbols from a dozen different cultures around the room.

The kitchen was tidier and looked more organized, but Sam was well aware that the wide array of herbs had other uses besides flavoring food, and it was for certain that neither the cat's eye shells and tiger eyes on the shelves nor the Hand of Fatima on the wall were mere ornament.

Dean stared around him, wide-eyed, and his cheeks pinked a little. He glanced at Sam, loose lipped and sheepish looking. "I never saw inside the place before," he muttered defensively.

"Not many folks get invited." Bobby pulled a whiskey bottle from a cupboard. "Most wouldn't appreciate the décor," he acknowledged. He picked up a couple of tumblers but before he could pour out the shots Ellen pulled the bottle from his hand.

"No need for that," she said, handing them cold beers from the icebox instead. "Rumsfeld says the boys are OK, and it's too early for whiskey. No matter what's in it," she added significantly.

Understanding washed over Dean's face and he smiled ruefully. "Dad once complained to me you watered down your whiskey," he recalled. "He just thought you were being cheap."

The old hunter chuckled. "Glad to meet you. Bobby Singer, paranoid bastard," he said, and produced a hip flask from his pocket, tipping it toward them in salute before taking a swig then sighing appreciatively. "This here's the good stuff," he explained with a wink.

Dean continued to survey the place and he used his bottle to gesture a sweeping arc that embraced all its mystical trappings. "I wish he'd known about . . . all this . . . back when it counted . . ." he said.

"I wish I'd known he was ever gonna _need_ to," Bobby replied.

Sam remained silent, but it seemed to him like Dean was studiously _not_ looking at him, and he felt the unspoken accusation. Not that anything had been said, but Sam was sure Dean still blamed him for not speaking up when he had the chance, not warning the family of what he knew.

"Bobby, how long have you been – " Dean began, but the older man cut him off.

"Long enough," was all he said, and he changed the subject. "So how come you two came here on foot? What's wrong with the car?"

"Blown head – "

"We're not sure – "

Dean glared and Sam sighed inwardly. "It could be the head gasket," he said, trying to mend fences where he could.

"I felt something give out while we were on the Interstate," Dean explained. "She was sluggish all the way here, and then she started overheating. I was hoping you could take a look at her for us."

"Sure, of course," Bobby assured him. "So you know all about engines now?"

Dean half smiled then dropped his chin and shook his head. "Not even close. I think it's time I learned though."

Bobby studied him closely. "From what I hear, you've learned a lot these last six months. By the way, that poltergeist in Pennsylvania? Hell of a job."

Dean pulled his head back in surprise. "Was there an article in the Demon Hunters' Quarterly I missed?"

"I've had my feelers out ever since I heard what happened with your folks," Bobby explained, "But every whisper I got of you two, you'd already moved on. You boys do a fine job covering your tracks." He nodded toward Sam. "I'd've asked your Gran'pappy if he'd heard any news, but he still won't take my calls."

Sam wasn't surprised to hear it. He knew there was no love lost between the two men, though he'd never learned how they came to fall out. "Is it true you threatened to blast him full of buckshot last time you saw him?" he asked.

"Yeah, well, what can I say? Samuel just had that effect on me." Bobby shrugged noncommittally. "We just never saw eye to eye, I guess. But I was willing to help all these years if he'd just picked up the phone."

Dean looked sharply at the old hunter, his eyes lighting up with sudden excitement. "Bobby, can you help us find the demon?" he demanded eagerly.

"No, I can't do that," Bobby replied, but before the hope faded from Dean's face he added "but I can help you trap it."

.


	4. Scene 3

Bobby wiped his hands and stepped out of the bathroom. He still had ingrained oil he couldn’t get out from under his fingernails, but ’least it was clean dirt. In the kitchen, Ellen was chopping vegetables for a stew. Bobby took a beer from the icebox and helped himself to a piece of carrot, earning himself slapped fingers for his pains, and Ellen pulled the beer bottle out of his hand. Woman was a pain in Bobby’s ass.  
  
Probably why he married her.  
  
“You gonna ask them?” she demanded quietly.  
  
“When the time’s right,” he assured her, his voice equally low. “Winchester’s boy hardly knows us and Sam barely remembers me. Give ’em a reason to trust us before we ask ’em to.”  
  
Ellen shrugged acknowledgment and Bobby turned toward the study where the two boys were poring over the books he’d shown them. Jo was seated at the kitchen table, nose deep in her books. She looked up and smiled at him as he passed but went straight back to typing notes on her computer. Bobby worried about her a little. Dedication was a fine thing, to be sure, but you’d think a young girl of that age would pay more attention when there were two strapping young lads in the house. It’d only be natural. But it wasn’t none of his business, he guessed.  
  
He paused at the door, momentarily awed anew at the sight of the young men, the changes since he’d last seen each of them. Could hardly credit it’d been so many years since he’d seen Sam: time enough for the boy to grow tall, tough and battle hardened. Still Bobby thought he could see something in the eyes: a ghost of the shy, neglected youngster he’d known. There’d always been something ethereal there. Now Bobby couldn’t help recalling fleeting moments when the little boy would get an odd, distant expression, then laugh suddenly. When you asked why, he couldn’t tell you. The recollection troubled Bobby somehow.  
  
And Dean: when Bobby had met him he’d been a reedy college kid, friendly, exuberant, vain about his looks and cocky with the girls - wooing them with sappy pop songs, boasting about his band and dreaming of being a rock star some day; typical kid with his whole life ahead of him and a world of options to explore. Now he was a man, driven and single-minded, with a world of trouble on his shoulders. It’d been just a handful of years but it was like he’d aged ten.  
  
The younger man sat at the desk turning pages while the elder hung over his shoulder, right up in his space. It seemed accepted; the two were tight like only men who are in a rat hole together can be, but Bobby sensed there was some trouble in the ranks. There was awkwardness in the way they’d look at one another, each trying to catch glimpses when the other wasn’t looking. Sam looked insecure, seemed to be searching for some kind of reassurance; Dean was anxious, worried about his young companion. But as soon as their eyes met, the walls went up: Sam’s face became wooden, Dean’s stony. Almost like they’d had a lover’s quarrel . . .  
  
Bobby’s gaze moved to the amulet that hung from Dean’s neck. That, in itself, told a story that God alone knew the end of.  
  
The boys glanced up as he entered the room. “You were right, Dean,” Bobby replied to the unasked question. “Just a crack between cylinders. You were real lucky to pick up on it so quickly before it did any more damage.”  
  
The young man straightened up, pulled back his shoulders and directed a smug look at the other boy, but his expression was masking some real relief at being proved right, and Sam looked too ashamed for being wrong. Something sure wasn’t right between these boys; they had far too much riding on a little thing like a tricky mechanical diagnosis.  
  
“Can you fix it, Bobby?” Sam asked.  
  
“Yeah. It’s not the only thing in need of fixing, though.” Bobby paused and let his meaning equivocate for a bit. “I’ll put the word out,” he said, “but it’ll take a few days to get the parts. ’Fraid she’s gonna be off the road for a while.”  
  
Dean suppressed a hiss of frustration and impatience.  
  
“You got somewhere you need to be in a hurry?” Bobby asked him.  
  
“Maybe,” Dean told him, and Bobby could see the fire of mission burning in his eyes. “Bobby, I think we might finally be close to getting a jump on this thing.” The boys exchanged a look that seemed to communicate something between them. “We’ve been following a lead on Samuel Colt,” Dean admitted warily, clearly nervous of the old hunter’s reaction, and not without reason.  
  
“Samuel Colt?” Bobby repeated skeptically. “The arms dealing, gun making Samuel Colt?”  
  
Dean nodded. “O.K. I know,” he acknowledged. Doubtless Sam had advised him of the apocryphal status of the Colt lore. “But, it’s starting to look like the legend he was also a hunter might have some legs.” He nodded to Sam who pulled a map out from his duffel bag and Dean pushed some books aside to make space for it on the desk. “We’ve just come from Wyoming,” he continued. “We spent the last few days in Sunrise. Turns out Colt was there between 1856 and 61, and each of these Xs . . .” Dean indicated five crosses that were marked on the map “is an abandoned frontier church, all of them built by Colt. And there's more. He built private railway lines connecting church to church that just happen to lay out like this . . .” He drew in lines connecting the crosses to form a five pointed star. “We figured it means something, and after what you’ve shown us – ”  
  
“Bobby, this book . . .” Sam interrupted, handling the pages of the volume Bobby had given him with something like awe. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”  
  
“Key of Solomon? It’s the real deal, all right,” Bobby assured him.  
  
“And these protective circles? They really work?” His fingers traced the intricate diagram illustrated on the page.  
  
“Hell, yeah. You get a demon in - they’re trapped. Powerless.” Bobby chuckled. “It’s like a Satanic roach motel.”  
  
“The man knows his stuff,” Dean acknowledged, gazing at Bobby with growing respect, but he quickly returned his attention to the map. “So it seems pretty likely Colt built the railway lines to protect something,” he speculated.  
  
“Yeah but, Dean, _what?_ ” Sam turned back to Bobby. “We went there,” he explained. “There’s nothing there but an old cowboy cemetery.”  
  
“We thought maybe Colt had hidden the gun there, but Sam and I went all over it,” Dean admitted. “With an EMF meter, even a metal detector. Turned up nothing but a rusty bicycle bell.”  
  
“So why Sunrise? Where did this lead come from?” Bobby thought it was a reasonable question but the tension in the room amped up the moment he asked it.  
  
“There was this girl . . . we met her in Indiana. She gave us a list of towns and implied they had some connection to Samuel Colt.” Dean scrubbed at the back of his neck and Bobby waited for more; he’d been around the traps long enough to know when he was only getting half a story. “O.K. so the girl turned out to be a demon,” the young man admitted.  
  
There was an uncomfortable silence. Bobby was pretty sure he wasn’t drunk but he was starting to think he needed to be. “You wanna run that by me again?” he growled.  
  
“Bobby, I know. I _know_ ,” Dean insisted. “We don’t know why she seems to be helping us – ”  
  
“Because she _ain’t!_ Use your head, Dean. Why would a demon lead you to a demon killing gun? It don’t make sense.”  
  
From the way Sam rolled his eyes it looked like he’d made this point already, and Dean squirmed a little. “Well, she didn’t actually mention the gun . . .”  
  
Bobby let out an exasperated sigh. “Wherever she’s leading you, you can bet it’s into a trap!”  
  
Dean’s shoulders straightened again and he fixed Bobby with a determined look. “She led us _here_ ,” he said pointedly.  
  
That kinda took the wind out of Bobby’s sails and Dean took advantage of his silence.  
  
“Sioux Falls was one of the towns on the list,” he explained. “I think she wanted us to meet up with you.”  
  
“Well, that’s a comforting thought,” Bobby drawled, his tone heavy with irony.  
  
“Any port in a storm,” Dean insisted quietly. “All the towns she’s led us to have checked out so far. We don’t know what the Wyoming thing means, yet, but it’s obviously important. We’ve got useful information from all the places she pointed us at, and we had nothing before.”  
  
And she knew that. She knew how desperate the boy was, what he needed. Bobby shook his head but, for now, he decided to move on to a safer and more practical issue. “Even if it’s true and the gun exists, even if you find it, what then? You’re not gonna shoot your daddy,” he pointed out.  
  
But the kid had already thought it through. “It’s _leverage_ ,” he said. “If there’s something that can kill Yellow Eyes, he’s gonna want it. So we use it. We use it to lure the son of a bitch and then we _trap_ it,” Dean stabbed a finger down on the ancient tome that Sam still held reverently in his hands, on the diagram of the Devil’s Trap. “Then we exorcizes the evil bastard’s ass back to Hell!” he snarled.  
  
Bobby lifted an eyebrow. “That easy?” he said dubiously.  
  
“It’s the first time we’ve had anything close to a plan.” Dean’s chest heaved and his eyes burned with the fire of an excitement that wouldn’t be extinguished. “We just need that gun. I feel like we’re close; we’re just missing a part of the puzzle. Maybe it’s in one of the other towns.”  
  
“Maybe,” Bobby replied thoughtfully, far from convinced, but he recalled that Sam’s grandfather had made an extensive collection of Colt’s more obscure private papers back in the early days of his obsession. He guessed it couldn’t hurt to share that information if Sam didn’t know it already. “Far as I know, Samuel never turned up any reference to the Colt,” he cautioned them, “but what you know now might narrow it down some. If you take a closer look at those five years he was in Sunrise, maybe something’ll leap out.”  
  
Dean and Sam shared an awkward glance but nothing was said and, once more, Bobby got the sense there was back story there he wasn’t privy to. He figured Sam had reasons why he was working with John Winchester six months back instead of with his own family, and why he hadn’t just taken Dean straight to the Campbells after the fire. Questions could wait. If the boys were going to be here a few days there’d be time for the Spanish Inquisition later.  
  
“But you oughta know, this is some serious crap you boys stepped in. Normal year, I hear of, say, three demonic possessions. Maybe four, tops. This year, counting in this girl you’re telling me about, I hear of twenty-eight. You get what I’m saying? More and more demons are walking among us – a lot more.”  
  
“Do you know why?” Sam asked.  
  
“No, but I know it’s something big. Storm’s coming, and you boys - your Daddy – ” He nodded to Dean. “You are smack in the middle of it.”  
  
.


	5. A word of explanation

Dear friends and readers of "The Song Remains the Same",  
  
I'm so sorry for my prolonged absence, and for the lack of updates to the serial, and I just wanted to briefly explain what's been going on with me.  
  
As many of you are already aware, my husband has been very sick for a long while and I'm sorry to say he passed away toward the end of last month. It is, at least, a comfort that the end was quick and he was at home with me when it happened, which is what he wanted.  
  
I am fortunate in having kind friends who are taking good care of me and, at the moment, I'm just slowly getting through the things I have to do and taking each day as it comes. I still have a long way to go but I'm slowly moving toward returning to a semblance of some kind of routine, and I hope to start catching up with you all again in the not too distant future.  
  
I ask you, please, don't give up on the serial because, I promise you, I haven't. I want and need to get back to it as soon as I can. Writing has been a saving grace to me in troubled times before and now, more than ever, I'm going to need the solace of being with my boys and writing their story, and it means so much that you all share that journey with me. Your words of support and encouragement are more important to me than I can express.  
  
I want to thank you all so much for your great support and loyalty and promise that if you can continue your kind patience for a little longer, I hope to begin posting again early in the new year.  
  
In the meantime, I wish you all a safe and happy holiday season, and my best wishes for the coming year.


End file.
